Roman said nothing, but his gaze stayed fixed on his father’s face, steady, unblinking.

Every shift of Magnus’s shoulders, every tightening of his jaw, every flicker in his eyes, it all spoke louder than words.

Guilty. The thought arrived, then immediately felt wrong. Magnus wouldn’t be that careless, would he?

The realization settled deeper with each passing second.

Across the table, Magnus barely seemed aware of anything beyond his own unraveling control. His fingers tapped once against the table, then stilled, as if he’d caught himself.

"You don’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation," one of the panel members said, his voice measured but firm. "If you did, you would have already brought your son before this panel to answer for his actions."

Another leaned forward, his chair scraping softly against the floor. "And you’d better start mentioning names," he added, tone sharpening. "That is the only thing that guarantees your son will ever step on the ice again."

Mr. Saunders glanced at Magnus, then quickly looked away, as though the weight of that gaze was too much to hold.

"I think we should ask Roman whether he intends to press charges," another member suggested, fingers laced together on the table. "Or if he would prefer to let this resolve itself."

A brief silence followed.

Then, almost as one, every head turned toward Roman. Even Magnus looked at him now, his expression carefully composed, but his eyes searching, urgent.

Roman met his gaze without hesitation. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, controlled. "If I press charges," he asked calmly, his voice cutting clean through the stillness, "will it force Mr. Saunders to speak?"

It sounded like a neutral question, procedural, even. But beneath it, something else pulsed. A choice. A warning. A test.

Magnus caught it. He nodded slowly, choosing his words with care. "Yes," he said. "It will escalate things completely."

The message beneath the words was quieter, almost hidden. Don’t do this.

Roman exhaled softly, shaking his head as if dismissing the thought. Then he turned to Mr. Saunders. "I won’t press charges," he said. Simple. Final.

A breath of relief tried to surface, but Magnus crushed it before it reached his face. He shifted in his seat, straightening, already trying to regain control of the narrative.

"We still need to inform the public," he said, smoothing his tone. "They deserve to know exactly what happened."

"There’s no need for that," Roman replied, almost lightly. He tilted his head, glancing briefly around the room before returning his gaze to Magnus. "The world is already watching," he added. "Every reaction, every word. It’s all being captured in real time."

A ripple passed through Magnus. His head turned instinctively, scanning the room, the corners, the walls, the ceiling, as if cameras might suddenly reveal themselves under his stare.

Roman didn’t move. He just watched and smiled.

"As far as I’m concerned," Roman continued, folding his hands loosely, "he has confessed. He has apologized. And we now know this wasn’t entirely his doing." He paused, letting the words settle. "That deserves forgiveness."

A few members nodded, murmuring in agreement.

"What matters now," Roman added, his tone sharpening just slightly, "is finding the hand behind the puppet."

More nods of agreement.

"You are hereby cleared of all charges, Roman Whitehall," one of the panel members announced.

The words landed like a verdict, clean, decisive. And to Magnus, they tasted like poison. This had been his design, his leverage, and now it had slipped through his fingers, turned against him.

Roman rose to his feet, unhurried. His chair scraped softly against the floor as he stepped back. His gaze flicked to Magnus, catching the tightness in his expression, the barely concealed frustration.

"I’ll take my leave," Roman said. "I trust you’ll do everything necessary to ensure justice is actually served now that my name is clear." There was weight behind the words.

Then he turned and walked toward the door, his steps measured, shoulders relaxed, but aware of every eye following him. He didn’t look back.

Outside, the corridor buzzed faintly with distant voices. And as he stepped out into the open, the noise swelled as a cluster of reporters waiting just beyond, microphones raised, cameras poised, questions already spilling over one another.

"Roman! Roman, what’s your response?"

"Do you believe this was a setup?"

"Who do you think is behind—"

He didn’t slow. Didn’t answer. He walked straight through them, the afternoon light hitting his face as he moved toward his car, his mind already miles ahead, locked on the next move.

—

About half an hour later, Roman’s car rolled into the estate driveway, gravel crunching softly beneath the tires.

He stepped out, the late afternoon sun warm against his skin, and a grin spread across his face, easy, satisfied. Victory still hummed through him, sharp and electric.

His first real win against Magnus. For a moment, he let himself feel it.

As he mounted the steps and moved toward the house, that energy lingered, light in his chest. He wanted, almost instinctively, to find Estelle, to tell her, to see that look in her eyes when she realized he had turned the tide.

But that thought cooled just as quickly. He still needed to find her.

By the time he reached the landing and turned into the hallway, the smile had already begun to fade. Then he saw him.

Noah. Standing in almost the exact same spot as earlier, as though he hadn’t moved at all.

Roman slowed, the shift in his expression subtle but immediate. The air seemed to thin around him. Who is this man, and why is he still here?

He closed the distance in long, measured strides. "You again?"

Noah turned at the sound of his voice. For a split second, there was surprise, but it melted quickly into something calmer, almost relieved. He straightened and drew in a quiet breath before extending his hand.

"Hello, Roman."

Roman didn’t take it immediately. His gaze flicked from Noah’s face to the outstretched hand, then back again, weighing, measuring.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked, his tone edged, brows pulling into a faint frown.

Noah let out a small breath, as if steadying himself, though his smile remained in place. "Waiting for Vance," he replied. "I’m Noah Ellis. We didn’t get a proper introduction earlier."

A beat passed.

Then Roman finally took his hand, brief, firm, impersonal, before letting go.

"Snooping isn’t allowed here," Roman said, his voice cool. "You don’t move around without staff. So I’ll ask again, what exactly are you doing here?"

Noah’s smile didn’t falter, but something in his eyes sharpened. "Let’s just say," he replied lightly, "I’m here to take care of what needs to be taken care of."